


The Punk

by Dryad



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Community: lewis_challenge, M/M, Suggested Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 04:56:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1128586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dryad/pseuds/Dryad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I've got a guy, he's a real pipparoo!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Punk

**Author's Note:**

> Written for chiralove!
> 
> Url in notes now fixed AGAIN.

\- Thursday, March 3rd

Lewis quelled the sourness of his stomach with a swig of cold milk from the half-empty bottle. Afterwards, he tightened the lid and stood the bottle at his feet.

"McDaniels, as soon as you see the door open, drive," said Drummond, not really asking as he opened the passenger side door. Over his shoulder he said, "Ready?"

Lewis didn't join in the ragged chorus of 'sirs' emanating from the back of the paddy wagon. He hated raiding clubs, found it pointless. There were actual crimes and criminals he would rather focus on, thank you very much. But his was not to reason why, merely to...obey. Besides, he only had two more weeks to go and then he would be out of London's stink.

The heavy rain of the daytime had lessened to a dense fog that was trying very very hard to be more rain. The fog was oily with coal dust, dirty yellow in the lights of the occasional oncoming vehicle. Tiny droplets of moisture kissed the skin of his face and hands, slicking the grip of his billy club, leaving him to wish once again that he'd had the foresight to bring his gloves from home. Val was supposed to have collected them -

As a group they rounded the corner of Berwick Street and walked down Portland Mews. The acrid scent of cigarette smoke fought with the odour of burning coal and boiled cabbage. Men in jackets and long coats stood on the pavement, smoking, talking in low tones that faded as Drummond's gang headed towards the Lily House at #39. Several pulled their caps down over their foreheads, turning and striding, no, two of them broke into a trot, disappearing into the dark.

Lewis stopped in front of the door while the rest of the group spread to either side of the door. Drummond nodded and Lewis knocked, a sharp three raps against the wooden frame. An older woman was on the other side of the door, her expression flicking from disdain to surprise to anger as Drummond shoved past her.

"Police!" shouted Lewis, following Drummond down the softly lit hallway. The next ten minutes were a cacophany of sound; more shouting, boots on bare floorboards, slammed doors. Disheveled, half-dressed men with hands behind their backs were shuffled down the hall to where the paddy wagon had pulled up outside.

"Sir, there's a gent who's refusing to be arrested," Constable Markell said, motioning towards the sitting room. He apologetically added, "He's tall, sir."

Markell was going to have get over it if he wanted to go on being a copper. Lewis bit back his irritation and stepped through into the room. Unlike the bare hallway, the room was cozy with old-fashioned flocked maroon wallpaper with a garish gold fleur-des-lys pattern, holiday decorations still gay around the heavily curtained windows.

In the corner stood a man. He was indeed tall, and blond, dressed in a dark, pinstriped suit perfectly tailored for his narrow frame. He leaned against the mantle, taking a cigarette out of a Dunhill pack. He gave Lewis the once over before leaning over, lighting his cigarette from the coal fire in the grate. One cool customer.

"So am I under arrest, then."

A posh, cultured voice. The kind of bloke Lewis always thought should lead by example.

"Because I haven't done anything to warrant an arrest."

Merely being inside #39 was enough. "All men are equal under the law - "

 _"Lewis!"_ barked Drummond as he entered the room. "That's enough. I'll deal with this gentleman."

"Sir," muttered Lewis, following Markell back into the hallway. Apart from Drummond's low and rather intense tone, the house was quiet. Oh, there was the ticking of the grandfather clock on the upstairs landing and the faint voices of the constables outside, but the house was empty.

Blondie left, side-eyeing Lewis on his way out. Drummond followed, mouth pursed and brows pinched. "Never stops, does it. All the privileges in the world and he ends up in a place like this."

Not being a stupid man, Lewis kept his mouth shut. If Drummond was in chatty mood, Lewis wasn't going to stop him. Together, they watched Blondie stop and speak to someone in the back of the Black Maria, then walk away.

"Worst part is that it's not the first time."

"A dangerous game," Lewis offered quietly, aware of Markell hovering over his shoulder, doing his best turn at invisibility.

Drummond shook his head again. "I know his uncle. Lord Curzon will not be pleased."

Yes. Not for the first time, Lewis wondered what circles Drummond moved in. He'd heard the rumors; Drummond was having an affair with Lady Hammond, Drummond had an illegitimate daughter with Mrs. Cummings, Drummond had been a spy in Greece during the war. Lewis hadn't seen evidence of Drummond letting anyone off for something serious. At least he didn't think he had. Because Drummond was on the fast track. Lewis would rather get by on talent and skill instead of nepotism.

"Come on," Drummond put his hands in his overcoat pockets and headed towards the street.

 

\- Thursday, March 17th

Lewis decided to treat himself and get his lunch at The Carvery in Albemarle Street. Sergeant Henney had let slip that The Carvery had just gotten a delivery of pork, and Lewis fancied a pint and a chop. The day was exceedingly warm for spring, enough so for him to return to the station almost immediately after leaving it to re-hang his coat on the wooden tree in the bullpen.

Walking to the pub, Lewis was pleased by what he saw. People were out and about, children with their mothers, the stress of the War beginning to ease. Nonetheless, he looked forward to leaving the city. Putting the past 10 years behind. Soon he would be able to see Lyn every day, and her little lad Thomas, whom he was assured knew who he was from the pictures she had cut out of the Daily Mirror.

Halfway down New Bond Street, along with everyone else he had to stop. The signs were clear:

**************  
DANGER UXB  
**************

A bloke standing next to him in a black suit, wearing an ARP armbrand put his hands on his hips and shook his head. "You'd think we'd be rid of the blasted things by now."

"Aye," Lewis said, idly looking around the gathering crowd. "How'd they find this one, then?"

The man motioned towards a nearby group of men wearing work trousers, some stripped bare to the waist, others in filthy vests. "Tearing down that old greengrocer's. Found it lodged in the basement. Miracle that doodlebug hadn't gone off yet with all those sledgehammers swung to and fro."

Lewis gave the men the once over, then nearly caused himself an injury looking back. One was tall - blond - yes. Back at the station Drummond had made a point of taking Lewis into his office, closing the door and insisting Lewis never mention who he'd seen at the Lily House again. Because of course that would cause problems for Drummond's career.

Still, now that he knew James Hathaway was landed gentry he was shocked to see him working in the streets like a common labourer. He was surprisingly well-made, arms corded with muscle. Hathaway was offered a tin cup dipped into a bucket; he drank, head tipped back, neck long as the rest of him, water dripping down and leaving dark spots on his dirty white vest. Lewis was still watching when Hathaway finished, handing back the cup and saying something that made his companions laugh.

So when Hathaway turned and caught Lewis staring, Lewis was embarrassed. Lewis managed a short nod, not waiting to see if Hathaway returned it as he turned and headed the other way. It would be a longer walk to The Carvery, and he felt a little sick to his stomach, but he was determined to get his pint. Maybe that would settle the queasiness.

 

\- Tuesday, April 5

"Ta very much, mister!"

"Mind you share that with your sister," Lewis called, watching the boy scarper off, narrowly missing being run over by a lorry going too fast through the intersection. Lewis shook his head. He hoped there actually was a sister - he was pretty sure there was a sister, the look of open joy on the boy's face bespoke of sharing rather than hoarding. He was abruptly aware of the long shadow next to him, and to whom it belonged.

"A very kind gentleman you are."

Lewis gave Hathaway a sidelong glance before turning to face him fully. "Can I help you, Mr. Hathaway?"

"Do you always carry oranges in your coat pockets?"

"What of it?"

Hathaway gazed at him, clearly incredulous. Lewis shrugged, felt blood heat his cheeks. "Daughter-in-law sends 'em to us. Sadie, lives in California."

"You have a son?"

He nodded, looked into the newsprint plastered window of the newsagents they were standing in front of. "Mark. Haven't heard from him since the Fall of Singapore," he shook his head, watching Hathaway's reflection in the glass pane. Lewis had to turn and look to his left to escape Hathaway's compassion.

"There's still hope," said Hathaway quietly. "He could be a prisoner of war - "

Lewis managed to huff a disbelieving laugh past the tightness of his throat, the stinging of his eyes. He knew his voice would bear all when he next spoke, and it was true, his voice came out deep and graveled. "No, he was there as a civilian. It's been 4 years. I don't think he's coming home. At least Sadie has the kids. Look," he took his wallet from his coat, removed two small photographs. "That's Robbie, he's the eldest, and there's Jesse, he's the middle one but he's short for his age, and that's our Tilly, only girl of the bunch."

"Adorable," pronounced Hathaway, peering carefully at the pictures. "Is that Mark and Sadie?"

"Aye. That's me lad," Lewis fought the urge to stroke Mark's smiling, happy face.

"Your wife must be devastated."

"She would be if she knew. She was in Bank Station."

Hathaway frowned, as if he couldn't quite believe Lewis' bad luck. He shoved his coat sleeve back and said, "Look, it's almost four o'clock. Would you care to come to tea?"

For a long moment Lewis couldn't quite believe what he had heard. His second thought was that Hathaway was trying to bribe him, but the man was too earnest. A little anxious, actually. Which made Lewis feel better. But he needed to be clear. "I'm not one..." he gestured towards Hathaway. "I'm not like you."

Hathaway's eyes widened and his lips curled in what Lewis thought passed for amusement. "I'm aware. Nonetheless, my landlady will be more than happy to feed you biscuits until you roll home."

"Alright," Lewis said, wondering what the hell he was doing with a near-criminal toff.

"Don't worry," Hathaway said, turning and flagging down a taxi. "I won't tell DCI Drummond."

Lewis raised an eyebrow. He certainly wasn't going to say anything to Drummond, either.

Hathaway lived in Westminster, on Baker Street, just off the Marylebone Road. Lewis was grateful his years as a policeman had inured him to wealthy people. Money, too much or too little, brought the same issues to light no matter class or station. Murder, rape, burglary. Affairs. The rich were able to buy time as the poor were not. It didn't matter to Lewis. Unlike Drummond, he caught the criminals no matter who they were.

Still. He was honest enough with himself to admit he wasn't sure if this was a good idea or not. Usually when he was served tea in the homes of criminals, it was by the hands of grateful spouses, not the criminals themselves. (Although Jack Neil had been a special outlier in that regard.)

Hathaway did not invite him to his rooms. Instead, he left Lewis in the care of his landlady, the disapproving Mrs. Beattie. The young man seated at the small round table next to the fireplace was clearly a lout. Squat, dark haired, sullen. He glanced up from his paper - the Daily Mail, of course, gave Lewis a long head-to-toe look before returning to whatever article he was reading.

Lewis took the armchair on the other side of the fire and waited, glancing about. The room was Pleasant with Aspirations to Society despite the long crack in the ceiling plaster. He was surprised; everyone he knew had thrown themselves into renovating and repairing bomb damage and subsidence as soon as the War was over. A curiosity. Mrs Beattie brought a tray with two cups, teapot, milk and a generous bowl of white sugar. There were no biscuits as Hathaway had promised, but the tea with milk and sugar would suffice. He was halfway through his cup, no Hathaway in sight, when a young woman in tan overalls burst into the room.

"Hallo Lionel!" she said brightly, before catching sight of Lewis. "Hallo."

"Hello," he replied, watching her bounce to the lout and kiss him on the forehead.

"Piss off, Ivy. I'm trying to read."

She made a face at him and rebounded to Lewis' side of the fire. Taking the empty cup, she poured herself some tea, adding in three teaspoons of sugar. At Lewis' frown, she said, "Oh I'm parched! Don't worry, I'll bring another cup."

"Ivy!" barked Mrs Beattie. She stood in the doorway, hands on her hips. "What have I told you about guests?"

"Oh mum, mister - mister - you didn't mind, did you?"

"Ah - "

"See, he's fine with it. I'll just go and get another, shall I?" Ivy sidled around her mother and disappeared into the hallway.

There was a sudden rustle of paper as Lionel crushed the newspaper into his lap. "Primrose, you've got to do something about her."

Mrs. Beattie waved her dishtowel in the air, the sudden picture of distress. "Such as? She's not been the same since she's been in the Land Girl's, y'can see that plain as the nose on your face."

"I'll shape her up once we're married, but until then she's your responsibility."

Lewis hated the tone of the conversation, but it wasn't his place to say anything about it. Thankfully Hathaway reappeared, having changed from his work wear to something altogether more formal; suit and tie. "I hope I'm not keeping you from your dinner engagement," Lewis said as Hathaway sat down.

"Oh - oh no. No, nothing of the sort," Hathaway looked down, frowned. "Mrs. Beattie, why do I not have a teacup?"

Mrs. Beattie twitched and stopped staring at them. "Right, I'll, I'll be back in two ticks."

"Women," muttered Lionel, launching himself out of his chair and stalking into the hallway, pounding up the stairs with the tread of an elephant.

Strange household.

The return of Mrs. Beattie a moment later heralded a fresh pot of tea, complete with cozy, and a small plate of sugar biscuits. "Eat up, Mr. Hathaway. You don't want to lose your strength in the streets."

Lewis managed to keep his eyebrows from reaching his hairline. He turned his attention to finishing his tea and would have poured another if Mrs. Beattie hadn't whisked the too-well mashed teapot away.

"Too strong for the likes of you, Mr. Lewis," said Hathaway, his tone light.

Lewis heard the mockery in it anyway and glared at him.

"Thank you, Mrs. Beattie. I won't be needing supper this evening."

Mrs. Beattie simpered her way out of the drawing room, quietly sliding the pocket doors closed behind.

Well, there they were. Lewis was at a loss, and fell back upon the one topic everyone could talk about. "Hard to believe the war's been over for almost four years."

Hathaway...didn't quite nod. "Did you go overseas?"

Lewis shook his head. "Nah, too old. Local Defense for me. You?"

"I volunteered. Duty and all that," he finished, at Lewis' raised eyebrow. Hathaway contemplated his tea, then glanced up at Lewis. "Can I trust you, Inspector Lewis?"

"I don't know, can you?"

Hathaway slumped back in his chair. "A serious question."

"As much as any other copper, I expect," answered Lewis. He didn't want to say that his fellow policemen were all dirty, yet neither could he make himself out to be a paragon of virtue. He said, quietly, "I'm not DCI Drummond, Mr. Hathaway. I've seen a lot in my time and hold my own counsel."

"Post tenebras lux," muttered the other man with a small, unhappy smile. "My uncle has told me I should move to Italy with the other mollies."

Lewis winced. "You know I should arrest you for that."

Hathaway shrugged. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet of Dunhills. He searched in his other pocket, shook his head. "Have you a light?"

"I don't smoke anymore. Air's too thick as it is."

Despite the fire in the grate, Hathaway chose not to light his cigarette. He put away the Dunhills, crossed his legs. "Even if you did arrest me, the charges wouldn't stick."

"Because of Lord Curzon?"

"My uncle has his uses. His honor and reputation are very important to him."

"And yours isn't?" asked Lewis. He poured more tea into his cup, added sugar and milk, stirred, sipped. Perfect. Almost Northern in strength.

Hathaway looked at him again, nodded once as if making a decision. "I fought in North Africa, then worked in the Inter-Service Research Bureau. A year later I was transferred to the London Signals Intelligence Centre."

"Never heard of them, but they sound important," said Lewis, watching Hathaway relax. Well, proof that he needed to ask a few questions when he returned to the station.

"You might say. Did you find any rogue Germans during your travails in Dad's Army?"

"Hardly. Did the training, patrolled when necessary."

They fell into a comfortable silence before Lewis said, "I'm leaving London tomorrow. Headed up to Oxford where our Lyn lives. She's me eldest."

Hathaway blinked at him.

Lewis shook his head. "I've had enough of London, the smog, the stink. I want fresh, pure air and grandchild to dandle on my knee. Thought I'd already be there but the transfer was delayed for some reason or another."

Hathaway quirked an eyebrow, then said, "A pity about your transfer. Oxford is a lovely town, but Cambridge is better."

Lewis recognized the gleam of a fanatic and promptly changed the subject. "I should be going. There are a few things to tidy up."

"Of course," murmured Hathaway, standing up and moving towards the door. "Let me call you a taxi."

"Not necessary," said Lewis. He had money enough for the Tube, his train ticket, and one last pint with the lads.

"Please. It would be my pleasure."

"If you feel that way about it."

Hathaway did look pleased by Lewis' acquiescence. Then again, he was a toff, he was expected to be obeyed. Which was unfair of him, he hardly knew the man. Yet another good reason to leave London behind. He pretended not to notice Hathaway slipping the cabbie coinage, but then Hathaway gave the cabbie Lewis' address. "How - "

"Lord Curzon has his uses," Hathaway repeated, thumping the roof twice before stepping back and waving.

 

\- Wednesday, April 6th

Jekyll's 'Children and Gardens' was not exactly a riveting read, but Lewis figured it was a good place to start. He didn't mind flowers in the garden, but vegetables were good, too. And you could eat them. Cabbage Roses might sound tasty, but they were far from delicate once they were in the stomach, as Mark had found. He could do with a few peonies, though, Val loved peonies. Would they be worth planting? He'd applied for the allotment as soon as he'd gotten the okay for the transfer to Oxford. In fact, he was a little surprised it had come through so quickly. Then again, with the end of rationing on the horizon, perhaps people were giving up their Victory Gardens. He would have to see the size of the allotment before he made any decisions as to flowers versus vegetables.

The aisle door snicked and Lewis did a double take as Hathaway pushed into the compartment.

"Fancy meeting you here," Hathaway said as he slid a well worn saddle brown valise onto the high ledge, then removing his tan overcoat before seating himself across from Lewis. At Lewis' stare he continued. "My father suggested a change of scenery might do me a good turn. The Communist forces in China, you know."

Lewis didn't, actually.

Hathaway crossed his legs, took a bright green book out of his pocket and balanced it carefully on his thigh. "You have questions."

"Ye-es..."

"I'm not following you. I just happened to be going to Oxford the same day as yourself. Didn't think to mention it at tea."

A likely story. Lewis leaned forward and put a finger on the bottom of the book, pushed it up a little. The spine read 'Nineteen Eighty-Four' - George Orwell. "What's that about then?"

"Oh," Hathaway shrugged. "It's political. Not actually published for another week or so, but a friend of a friend thought I would like it."

The conductor's piercing whistle was shrieking when the carriage door opened, an older man with round glasses not even bothering to see if there was anyone inside already, merely turning and picking up two suitcases. The woman standing to one side nervously smiled up, her eyes flicking back and forth between Lewis and Hathaway.

Hathaway jerked a nod, put his book back in his pocket, stood and with one wide step seated himself next to Lewis.

"Ta," huffed the man, stepping stiffly into the carriage. He heaved the suitcases into the upper rack, then held out one hand to the woman. She stepped inside and sat down, smoothing her navy skirt over her knees before setting her purse on her lap. The man removed his overcoat and crossed his legs before taking a folded newspaper and a Biro from the overcoat's inner pocket. He sniffed, pointedly ignoring his companion as well as Lewis and Hathaway, checking his answers to the clues of the Saturday Times cryptic crossword.

The journey was quiet Lewis watching the scenery and not thinking about the warm press of Hathaway's thigh against his own, the bay rum undertones of his cologne overlaid with the bitter bite of cigarette smoke. They disembarked at Oxford General, Hathaway handing Lewis his card, his address written with frankly gorgeous penmanship.

The flat Lewis was renting turned out to be a small house. He wasn't quite sure how that had happened, but it was an end row, two-up two-down affair just like his childhood home. A bit grand for a single man. When he enquired as to the increase in cost Mr. Abrams, the landlord who lived next door, said that he would keep the rent the same. That was good enough for Lewis.

Two weeks after putting his meagre belongings away (hanging his clothing, putting Val's framed photograph on the mantlepiece) and rearranging two chairs next to the fire in the parlour, after meeting Thomas, Lyn's little boy, and her new beau, Frank, after working his first cases at Saint Albans, Lewis found himself having a pint with Hathaway in a pub on the Cherwell. He eyed his compatriot, who despite being dressed in a tuxedo, looked perfectly at his ease. Until he glanced at Lewis, who was suddenly struck by the rosy glow of his unlined face, the jut of his high cheekbones, the depth of his changeable eyes. "How old are you?"

"Really? Now you ask me?"

"Give over, man," huffed Lewis, turning away to sip his bitter and lean against the bar. At the slight touch of pale fingers on his arm he looked back at Hathaway. "Didn't mean anything by it."

"Old enough," replied Hathaway. He checked his wristwatch, then drank the rest of his beer. Standing back form the bar, he buttoned his suit jacket, brushed his hands down his front, smoothing away invisible crumbs. "The offer stands," with a short nod at Lewis, he turned and left the pub.

Lewis slowly enjoyed the rest of his pint, pondering what to do. Mr. Abrams had given him the bad news only that morning.

"Sorry, Mr. Lewis. My daughter's coming home with her family and I need the house back."

He'd already found lodging for the night and could certainly take up digs with the lads, but he wasn't twenty any more, he didn't fancy living with a bunch of blokes with whom he worked. It hadn't taken long for Hathaway to drag the information out of him, and even less time for him to make the offer.

A spare bedroom in the Victorian home Hathaway's family owned. Or the attic flat, if he preferred. Lewis shouldn't have been surprised, yet Hathaway's insistence that he needn't pay any rent was beyond the pale. He wasn't the type of man to live off the largesse of others. And Hathaway had assured him he wouldn't be a bother. Apart from the two of them, should he move in, there was a housekeeper who came twice a week and a gardener to clip the bushes into submission, even a laundress, which Lewis thought was going too far.

And yet - .

 

\- Sunday, July 17

Lewis sat on the garden bench, tea forgotten, the remnants of Saturday's paper fallen to the ground like so many pale leaves. The sun was still shining brightly, the grass rippling in the warm breeze. He could hear a songbird in the distance, a thrush, maybe, or a linnet. Lewis definitely knew which one it was, but a moment earlier Hathaway had leaned over and kissed him on the lips for no reason at all before standing up and going into the house and Lewis couldn't make sense of anything.

 

\- Monday, July 18

"He's a funny old one, is Mr. Hathaway," confided Mrs. Garrison as she served Lewis fried bread, egg, and sausage. "I wouldn't normally say such a thing but I've seen how you two get along."

Lewis busied himself with hot egg on bread, shoved the overlarge forkful into his mouth so he wouldn't have to respond to the housekeeper. She'd been in a rare, talkative mood since the birth of her first grandchild only the Friday before.

"Most of these university types are, if you don't mind me saying. I worked for a Professor who only wanted breakfast for dinner, can you imagine? Went through as many eggs in a week as you do in a month."

Plowing steadily through his meal, Lewis tuned her out. He hadn't seen Hathaway since the previous morning, when he - when he - Lewis shook his head in disbelief. They had been outdoors, if anyone had _seen_ \- ! His career would have been over. Hathaway would have been fine, they took that sort of thing differently in Oxford than London. Even Chief Superintendent Strange felt that pestering the homosexuals was a waste of time and resources, having repeatedly emphasized the catching of robbers and murderers over any higher mandates from Chief Barrett. Yet just because Strange didn't care to raid clubs didn't mean he wanted homosexuals on his patch or anywhere other than his nick.

It wasn't like Hathaway to simply disappear of a night, either. No, he had his churchy events, and the musicians he played with (Lewis had once gone, and vowed to never again), the rowing and boxing he took for exercise, and of course any tutoring required of him. That much had come as a surprise. Hathaway had repeatedly told Lewis exactly what his position was at the University, some sort of teaching position in World Theology. Because Hathaway had, at one time, planned on becoming a Catholic priest. At long as he didn't spout religiousness at Lewis, Lewis was fine with all of it. Nonetheless, if Hathaway wasn't back by nightfall, Lewis was determined to make enquiries.

Lewis wasn't exactly shocked that Hathaway had kissed him, after all, he was a policeman, he was trained to be observant. It was just...it was...he frowned at his plate, watched a thread of saffron yellow egg yolk ooze off of his fork and onto a crust of fried bread. He'd met plenty of homosexuals in London due to Drummonds's fervered commitment to arresting them, hell, he'd been on the receiving end of some very handsy grabbing from utterly drunk strangers, but he'd always found them disgusting in the way of all slobbering drunks.

Hathaway, though. That kiss. It made a man wonder, precisely, what he found attractive, and whether or not that realization was something to worry about. There was no way around it, he was going to have to ask. Because here was the thing. He hadn't minded that kiss at all. If anything, it had boosted his affection for the man, an affection bolstered over the past weeks of living with him, of being in daily contact, of dinners and lunches and walks along the Cherwell.

"I said are you all done, Mr. Lewis?"

Lewis came back with a start. Mrs. Garrison looking at him with concern. "Yes, sorry, woolgathering."

She smiled and nodded as she gathered his plate and cup. "My Nancy's the same way, even worse now that she's had little William. That's the way of it when you become a mum or dad."

"True enough," he said, standing up. "Now I'd best be off to work before I start knitting the wool I've already got. See you later, Mrs. Garrison."

 

\- Saturday, October 8

Lewis finished his beer, raised his finger to get another. He licked his lips, mm, yes, they were tingling. One more pint in celebration of catching Joseph Finster and then home. Someone bumped into him hard and he said, "Hey! Oh, it's you."

"Bibamus, moriendum est," said Hathaway before leaning over the bar and ordering a Macallan, neat.

"Alright," muttered Lewis. He tugged on the wrist Hathaway's jacket. "Hathaway. James."

"Lewis. Robbie," parroted Hathaway. Instead of jerking his arm away, he moved closer to Lewis.

Lewis closed his eyes, remembered he was blinking, and opened them again. "James," he said earnestly. "Yes."

Hathaway frowned. "Yes? Yes to what?"

"What you did. In the garden, this summer. That thing you did."

"Oh," Hathaway stilled, his face falling into shuttered silence. He sipped his whisky, slid Lewis' fresh pint out of Lewis' reach. "What about it?"

Lewis leaned up and whispered loudly, but not too loudly, because he was not the only copper celebrating in the pub, and he couldn't afford to be overheard even though it was noisy and no one appeared to be paying any attention to them. "I said yes," he waved one hand in the air, losing his balance in the process and stumbling against Hathaway. Good god, he wasn't that drunk. Hathaway didn't seem to mind, though.

"You...you're saying yes. To me."

"For fucks sake, man, y'don't have to look like I've just drowned your favorite puppy. I've said yes!"

A hint of a smile began to bloom on Hathaway's lips. Lewis watched, rather entranced by their curve and fullness.

"Robbie!"

Lewis twisted around at the warm grip on his shoulder. "Oddie!"

"Robbie!" repeated Oddie, roaring with laughter as he shuffled past.

Lewis shrugged an apology to Hathaway. "I'll just finish me pint an' we can go home."

"We don't have to, you're enjoying yourself," said Hathaway, looking at the whisky in his glass as he swirled it round and round.

That seed of affection blossomed into heat in Lewis' throat, making it impossible to speak for a long moment. He managed to choke out, "James."

Maybe it was the tone of his voice. Hathaway abruptly tossed back the rest of his drink, blinked back tears afterwards. "Ready?" he husked.

Mouth dry, Lewis nodded. "Aye," he said. "Aye."

**Author's Note:**

> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
> PUNK, English, noun - a prostitute, a catamite, a troublemaker,  
> juvenile delinquent, wood used for tinder, soft, rotten  
> wood (aka 'punky')  
> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
> 
> There is a [pinboard](http://www.pinterest.com/orodemniades/the-punk) for this story! 
> 
> I desperately wanted to use Polari in this story, but found I just couldn't without it sounding super camp. So apart from one word I didn't include it, which bums me out.
> 
> "I've got a gal, a real pipparoo" - 'The Girl From Kalamazoo', Glen Miller Band. One of the popular songs of WWII in Britain as well as the USA.
> 
> UXB - sign signifying an unexploded bomb in the UK during World War 2. Also a fine drama series starring Anthony Ainsley and Bob Hoskins. 
> 
> Paddy wagon/Black Maria - prisoner transport vans. Etymology suggests both terms are of American origin, and my Scottish husband tells me he's never heard of 'Black Maria' being used in Britain/Scotland.
> 
> ARP - Air Raid Precaution. 
> 
> Foyle's War - a Very Young Laurence Fox appears in Series 2, episode 3 'War Games'
> 
> "Theirs was not to reason why, theirs but to do and die' - Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Charge of the Light Brigade.
> 
> Post tenebras lux - After the darkness, light
> 
> Inter-Service Research Bureau - code name for Special Operations Executive, a branch of the government formed to conduct espionage, sabotage and recconaissance. Headquartered on Baker St, the spies of this super secret organization were also known as the 'Baker St. Irregulars' and the department itself as the 'Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare' and 'Churchill's Secret Army'. Given Hathaway's background, looks, and intelligence, I figure he would be a shoe-in for this kind of operation. 
> 
> London Signals Intelligence Center - one of the code names for Bletchley Park. Given Hathaway's background and intelligence...
> 
> 'Bibamus, moriendum est' - Seneca. 'Let us drink, for we must die.' I'm thinking Le Petit Mort, here.


End file.
